


Unfamiliar Sleeping Arrangements

by shamusandstone (theleaveswant)



Category: Firefly
Genre: Angst, F/M, First Time, Fluff, Grief
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-01-14
Updated: 2009-01-14
Packaged: 2017-10-20 16:21:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,566
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/214665
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theleaveswant/pseuds/shamusandstone
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Three vignettes about sharing a bed. Post-movie.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Unfamiliar Sleeping Arrangements

I.

When the invasive beeping refused to desist from the power of his will alone, Simon was forced to stretch and twist his body half out of the bed in order to locate the button that would make the alarm clock shut up. A bleary-eyed glance around the room confirmed that he was not in his own berth in the passengers’ quarters but the bunk of a crew member, gaily decorated and cluttered with esoteric mechanical whatsits.

He peered at the clock’s blinking display and groaned at what he saw. Soft, smooth arms reached out to encircle his torso and he allowed himself to be drawn back into the centre of the bed. “It’s 0600,” he whispered, his voice rough from disuse, as he rolled on his side to face Kaylee.

“Can’t be 0600,” she muttered, pouting. “We just got to sleep.”

“S’what the clock says.”

“Clock’s stupid, then.” She pulled him tighter, wrapping both of her legs around one of his and rubbing a foot against his calf.

Simon shifted so that Kaylee could rest her head on his arm, and stroked her cheek with the knuckles of his free hand. “I like it here,” he sighed happily.

“Me too,” she mumbled, smiling and blinking her thick lashes. He wiped the gunk from the corners of her eyes with his thumb and kissed her forehead softly.

“Why do we have to get up?” he yawned. “Why can’t we just stay here another week or so?”

Kaylee giggled.

“I’m serious. I can’t remember the last time I felt as comfortable as I do here. All warm and safe . . . and warm . . . and . . .” He ran his hand down her arm to clasp her hand and she tickled her fingers through the sparse dark hair on his chest.

“Naked?”

“Naked.” He pushed her hair back from her face and laid his hand over her throat so he could feel the reality of her pulse, the rhythm of her being. “There is no place in the whole of this big, bad ‘Verse where I would rather be.”

Kaylee “aww”ed and rolled him onto his back, cupping his face in her palms and kissing him deeply and damply. When she had declared him good and smooched she curled herself in to his side, settling her head on his chest.

Simon dozed off there with his arm wrapped around her, but he’d hardly slept five minutes before being roused by Kaylee’s teeth and hot tongue teasing at his earlobe and her calloused fingers tweaking at his nipple. He sighed with mock resignation. It was time to get up, in one sense or another.

 

II.

Malcolm Reynolds was a sprawler, a tosser and a turner.

He occupied a far greater percentage of the bed than was fairly accorded to him, but exactly which bits changed constantly. Inara, who did not normally consider herself a light sleeper, was barely able to shut her eyes before his restless jostling shook her awake and set her mind racing all over again, a flurry of consequences, impossible solutions and worst-case scenarios.

She had surprisingly little practice sleeping next to someone, considering how many had shared her bed. It was not uncommon for a client to doze off once the crux of their business had been completed, but as a Companion she was not obligated to join them and rather than linger by their sides she generally used the time to tidy and to meditate, restoring order to her shuttle, her body and her mind. Not so tonight. They had drifted off in each others’ arms, exhausted, and it was only as the hours wore on that Inara’s brain had grown febrile with anxiety. The shadows of her living space, thrown by stars and moons millions of kliks away, had grown long and sharp in the threat of the coming day and the restless body by her side had taken on a menacing, alien shape.

Mal rolled over again, pulling more than his share of the sheets along with him, and Inara crossed her arms over her breasts and stared at the canopied ceiling with her brow tightly furrowed. This was a mistake, a terrible mistake. She was supposed to be going back to the training house, but how could she? Now that they’d finally carried the bluff too far and forced each other into the harsh light of admission, and she could no longer lie about having no reason to stay? At least he didn’t snore.

Inara envied Mal his ability to flop down on a mattress and escape into unconsciousness (even if, judging from the occasional muscle spasms and small noises, his escape may not have been blissful). For her part, she was unable to quiet the clamor in her brain. Even if it never happened again, they’d both know that it _had_. How long would it take the crew to find out? She was sure Mal wouldn’t stand for her returning to work; should she (could she) defy him? How would she support herself if she couldn’t?

Apparently Mal’s stupor was not as impenetrable as it appeared, for when Inara glanced over she found him watching her through half-lidded eyes. “Hey,” he whispered when he saw that she’d noticed.

Inara shook her head as she looked at him. “Mal, we can’t—“

“Shh . . .” His arm reached out to pull her towards him, turning her so that he could wrap himself around her, mold his body to hers. He kissed her shoulder and as he spoke his breath tickled warm and wet on her skin. “S’okay. I’ve got you. Can’t nothing get you here, and don’t none of it bear worryin’ on ‘til the morning. For now, just . . . stay.”

Inara wondered where this confidence had come from. Earlier, lost in the flurry of kissing, caressing and undressing, she’d been too preoccupied with her own responses to make a proper (professional) observation of his emotional reaction. When they finally emerged from the tumult, Mal on his back bucking up to meet her while Inara undulated on top of him like seaweed, he’d looked awed and astounded by the turn of events, right up to the moment he howled his release and drove her to her second fall. He seemed to have adapted rather well since then.

“You know you can’t control everything. You keep trying, you’re like to drive yourself doodly.” While her natural impulse was to argue, there was something extremely persuasive about having his warm body spooned against her back, the tenderness with which his strong arms held her pinned. She discovered in this enfolding a feeling of security, even of belonging, and despite her fear Inara allowed herself to be marched to sleep by the drumbeat of his heart against her spine.

 

III.

Strange how a bed that always felt just a little too tight for two is much, much too big for one. Does a person really take up so much space, or does he, in some strange twist of physics, only leave it behind?

Zoe wears pyjamas to bed, now, and pulls the blankets up over her shoulders. She never used to. The bed was always plenty warm with just her skin and a sheet and his body beside her. It’s strange. She can hardly remember what it was like before he moved in, back when this was just her bunk, but she’s sure it wasn’t this big, or this cold.

She’s alright during the day, when her hands and eyes and brain are busy. At night, though, alone in the bed they used to share, she feels his absence more intensely than any presence. It wasn’t so bad at first, when getting Serenity functional again had occupied every waking moment and a cocktail of painkillers and sedatives had regulated the rest, but since they’d gone back in the Black and the Doc had weaned her off the drugs it was getting harder and harder to keep her mind empty long enough to get to sleep. She works herself as hard as she can, trying to tire herself beyond thought, but there just isn’t enough to do.

She inhales deeply, hoping to fill her nostrils with his scent, revive him with the mess he left by living, but it is too late: the sheets have been laundered.

She’s supposed to be the strong one, she knows that. The tall, straight oak, unbent by winds of harsh circumstance. She knows people questioned her and Wash, wondered what could possibly tie beautiful Amazonian Zoe to a weedy goofball pilot. They didn’t understand that Wash was the solid ground that supported her, the soft and yielding soil in which Zoe had finally been able to take root and grow. In this bed, in his arms, wandering Zoe finally felt safe enough to settle down. Wash had been her home.

Now, without her solid ground, Zoe can feel herself shrinking. Lying with her knees tucked up to her chest in a bed getting bigger and colder by the minute, stretching out like an ocean, like the vast empty of the Black, Zoe buries her sodden face in the mattress. She’s drifting, a tree uprooted, her branches cracking in the vacuum. The harder she tries to suppress them, the more forceful are the sobs that rip from her body. Tiny Zoe wants her stolen comfort. Steadfast Zoe wants her goofy husband . . . and knows he’s never coming back.


End file.
